


all we need to get better

by Quintessence



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky has a dog, Comedy, M/M, Meet-Cute, consider this an enemies to lovers speedrun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 12:30:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quintessence/pseuds/Quintessence
Summary: Bucky has an inconsiderate next-door neighbor who insists on blasting awful music, a dog who always insists on howling along, and not enough patience for this.  But, through various notes taped to front doors, a glass of lemonade, and a certain painting, there may be some common ground to be found than he initially thought.





	all we need to get better

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).

> hey y'all!!! i can't believe i've posted 3 fics in 3 days!!! i don't know what's gotten into me!!
> 
> this fic was a pencils in the margins request & it really brought me back to my roots--my first fic on ao3 was stevebucky!!! kalika_999 was a joy to work with--so patient, considerate, and full of fantastic ideas.
> 
> alrighty, enjoy!

Get a dog.

It had been one of the first suggestions of Bucky’s therapist at the VA. Get a dog. The way Audrey explained it, PTSD tended to manifest in avoidant behavior. Trauma produces anxiety. And, she continued, people then begin to avoid anxiety-producing situations, which inevitably only makes the anxiety worse. And as a veteran who’d lost his left arm in combat, an anxiety-producing situation for Bucky eventually became anywhere that wasn’t curled up under the covers in his bed. So she’d told him to get a dog.

The dog, she explained, would force him to adopt a routine. And that routine would inevitably involve leaving the house. Sure, Bucky could live off cheap takeout if he didn’t want to brave a trip to the supermarket. His dog, however, could not. Bucky might be able to spend days on end cooped up in his apartment, but his dog, speaking from firsthand experience, would start chewing into the drywall if she didn’t get at least one walk in a day. And, at the bare minimum, he’d have to at least poke his head out into the fresh air a few times a day so the dog could relieve herself. Audrey thought the dog would force him to interact with the world beyond the walls of his apartment. And, Bucky has to admit, she was absolutely right.

It isn’t in Bucky’s nature to get overly sentimental about things, but Betty was unquestionably one of the best things ever to happen to him. In a matter of weeks, what started as just a scrawny shelter mutt riddled with fleas and ear infections became what got him out of bed every morning. Taking her to the dog park and obedience school had allowed him to make his first friends since arriving back from deployment. Her boundless, almost excessive affection made him feel that, despite everything, there might still be some good left in the world. He had a purpose again--keeping Betty happy, fed, warm, and comfortable. Over time, Bucky’s symptoms became more manageable, the agoraphobia lessened, and he found himself actually looking forward to watching her sniff delightedly at nearly everything they encountered on their excursions outside together.

Bucky’s daily routine has, by now, become comforting and familiar. Wake up. Take Betty outside. Feed her. Take her for her morning walk. Go to work. Return on his lunch break to take Betty out again. Finish the day of work. Come home. Take Betty for an afternoon walk. Feed her dinner. Spend the evening relaxing with her right at his side. It’s a routine that he actually looks forward to, one that makes him feel like he’s not merely going through the same meaningless motions.

It’s a Wednesday evening, around seven. The sun has set over New York, bringing with it a brisk October evening chill, but Bucky’s apartment is warm and bright and comfortable. Betty is curled beside him on the couch, her head in his lap as he idly pets her while reading a mystery novel. They’re both fed, the apartment is clean, and there’s nothing to do for the next few hours except relax. It’s the perfect evening.

Which of course, given Bucky’s luck, means it ends up ruined.

No sooner has Bucky discovered that the novel’s murder victim was really the detective’s half-sister all along than music begins blaring at top volume from the other side of Bucky’s eastern wall. Betty bolts upright, ears pricked forward toward the sound and tail wagging. And Bucky knows exactly what’s going to happen next.

Betty is a great dog. She’s affectionate, eager to please, and has never met a person she didn’t like. She hardly ever barks, rarely gets territorial around other animals, and has an eerie sixth sense to know when Bucky needs a bit of extra love. She’s the closest thing to a perfect dog Bucky could imagine. 

She does, however, have a quirk of sorts. She really,  _ really  _ likes to sing.

Bucky learned this early on. If he ever played loud music, Betty would howl along with irrepressible gusto. Of all the idiosyncrasies for a dog to have, being a music lover is hardly the worst of the lot. It’s merely annoying.  _ Extremely _ annoying.

Tonight is no exception. The moment the guitar riff starts up next door, Betty is howling her heart out, a discordant, earsplitting addition to the song.

“Hey, Betts. Betty Boopers. Shh,” Bucky coaxes. He’s whispering, hoping she’ll take his cue and quiet down. “Let’s be quiet, okay? Shhh. Quiet.”

No luck. As the music next door builds to a crescendo, Betty matches it. It’s as if she were a doggy opera star, singing on her debut night as the primadonna. There is no way in hell Bucky’s going to shut her up.

Bucky attempts to ignore it and focus on his book. The mystery is really starting to get good, and he wants to enjoy it. But Betty’s howling doesn’t exactly create the ideal relaxing ambiance.

So they pass the next two hours with Betty intermittently singing her heart out along with the music. After several minutes she’ll tire herself out and lie down again, and Bucky will get a brief, beautiful respite. But inevitably, the music will build or the singer will hit a particularly stunning note, and Betty joins back in again, determined to perform her part of the duet. And, because when it rains it pours, his neighbor isn’t even playing good music. It’s the kind of trashy pop punk Bucky would blast through his headphones on the bus rides home during high school. It’s loud and frantic and largely tuneless, and made all the more unbearable by Betty’s howling.

It’s a grating, relentlessly irritating two hours. At nine, the neighbor finally turns off the music, so at least he has some manners buried in there somewhere. The silence is exquisite, and Bucky’s so relieved he falls asleep right on the couch. His last thought before he drifts off is to hope tonight was merely an anomaly, and that he’ll be blessed with a peaceful, quiet evening come tomorrow.

* * *

Because the Universe has almost certainly pinned a metaphysical “Kick Me” sign on Bucky’s back, the music doesn’t stop.

The following evening proceeds in exactly the same manner. Right around seven, Bucky’s neighbor puts on some trashy pop punk music at top volume and Betty insists on singing along. At nine, by the time Bucky has developed a splitting headache, he turns it off, and Bucky can finally enjoy some peace and quiet. He makes it to his bed this time and he falls asleep begging any power that might be listening to spare him yet another evening of psychological torture.

But Friday passes in the exact same manner, because of course it does.

After the fourth night of Betty and the neighbor’s discordant duet, Bucky takes action. Before leaving the house to run a few errands on Sunday morning, he tapes a note to his next door neighbor’s door.

_ Hello, _

_ I’m going to have to ask you to turn down your music in the evenings. It’s making my dog howl, and she’s likely disturbing our neighbors (not to mention me). The walls are thin in this building, so please don’t play your music quite so loud every night. _

_ Bucky _

And then Bucky waits with bated breath for another unbearable evening. He channels his anxious anticipation into mentally composing even more forceful notes should his neighbor fail to comply with his request. The phrases “who, exactly, raised you?” and “demonstrating a truly staggering lack of consideration for your fellow human beings” feature prominently. Perhaps stabbing the note to his door with a kitchen knife would be a nice touch.

But, because even Bucky manages to catch a break once in a while, there isn’t any music this evening. The evening bustle of New York, the car horns and sidewalk arguments, has never sounded quite so beautiful. At least Bucky’s neighbor has a modicum of respect for other people. Sometimes all it takes is a polite request to fix a problem, he concludes. Communication is nearly always the key, isn’t? And with a short, respectful note, Bucky’s managed to resolve the whole issue without any conflict. Bucky gives Betty a few special treats that evening, relieved to have finally put the whole matter to rest.

* * *

The matter, Bucky discovers three days later, is absolutely not put to rest.

When he returns home from work that evening, he finds a note taped to  _ his  _ door. The handwriting is slightly loopy but largely neat and written in a thick blue pen. The note reads,

_ Dear 315, _

_ Your dog is making a racket in the afternoons when my toddler is trying to nap. Please be a responsible pet owner and see to the problem. If your dog is bored at home alone all day, I know of an affordable and reliable dog walker. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Your neighbor, Julie _

It’s the last thing Bucky needs right now. He’d had a rough day as it is and ended up getting a talking to at work for a problem that wasn’t his fault in the first place. And now he’s being pinned with undeserved blame once again. And to top it all off, he has a headache.

So Bucky storms into the apartment, mumbling and grumbling under his breath. But he can’t stay quite that angry for long, not with Betty showering him in her daily post-work affection. He’s had her for a year now, and every single time he comes home, she’s just as excited. It’s remarkable how her love simply never wavers. And faced with her gentle brown eyes and friendly sniffs and kisses, it’s hard for Bucky to maintain the same level of fury. And perhaps that’s for the best. The note he had begun mentally composing before he opened the door was littered with expletives and thinly veiled threats of grievous bodily injury. But after Betty’s managed to lower his frighteningly high blood pressure, the one he actually ends up taping to his neighbor’s door is far more civil.

_ Hello again, _

_ “I’m going to have to ask you to turn down your music in the evenings” DOES NOT mean “play your music at top volume in the afternoons.” Now I’ve got an angry mother leaving  _ me  _ notes because Betty’s howling is keeping her child from napping. Perhaps you should invest in a pair of headphones. _

_ Bucky _

Bucky spends much of the remainder of the evening searching online for houses on the outskirts of the city. He’d never really leave New York proper, and everything available is comically far out of his price range, but there’s something to be said for escaping into a fantasy in which he no longer shares a wall with his neighbors.

* * *

Upon leaving for work the next morning, Bucky finds another note taped to his door. This time, the handwriting is fast, tall, and angular and the ink is green.

_ Hello, Bucky, _

_ My sincerest apologies for causing you so much trouble for the past week. If you have a moment to stop by sometime today, I would love the chance to explain myself. Feel free to bring along Betty—I’d love to meet her. And you’re right, headphones wouldn’t be a bad idea. _

_ Best, _

_ Steve _

Bucky finds the politeness bizarrely irritating. Who does this guy think he is, suddenly acting considerately after his obvious disregard for anyone’s peace and quiet for the past week? The unmitigated gall of him!

For the duration of the workday, Bucky debates whether he really should stop by in the evening. On one hand, he doesn’t owe this guy a chance to justify his behavior. And for all he knows, this could be the elaborate plot of a serial killer with appalling music taste. But more than anything, he’s been in a bad mood thanks to this Steve guy for the past week, and he can’t possibly see this conversation ending in anything other than a screaming match.

On the other hand, there’s the sheer curiosity. Who blasts pop punk at all hours of the day and entirely ignores the dog howling incessantly because of it? Does this guy have a job? What does he look like? What’s it like inside his apartment? Bucky may not like the guy, but he’s at least somewhat intriguing.

Curiosity, as it frequently does, ends up winning out, and Bucky finds himself somewhat begrudgingly standing outside Steve’s door later that evening. He’s brought Betty with him. Not, of course, because Steve asked, but merely as an insurance policy in case this guy really does end up being a serial killer.

After a deep breath and one last moment of deliberation, Bucky knocks. Footsteps approach the door, and then it opens.

Bucky is not shallow. He is not swayed by something as trivial as physical appearance. So it absolutely does not matter that Steve has a very cute, slight frame, with elegant hands and delicate collarbones. In no way do his enormous blue eyes and high cheekbones affect Bucky’s mood. The vibrant tattoos along his arms, the endearing way his blond hair flops over to one side, the adorably oversized t-shirt he’s wearing—absolutely none of it changes how Bucky feels. He simply becomes less angry when the door opens. There’s no causation to find there.

“Bucky?” Steve says, smiling. He has a very nice smile. Not that it matters—merely an objective observation.

“Hi.”

“And this must be Betty!” Steve gushes, crouching down to pet her. She wags her tail in delight and covers him in kisses.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he coos. “What a beautiful girl you are! Yeah? Are you beautiful? I think you are!”

It’s the universal meaningless babble of someone enamored with an animal, and it is, admittedly, very endearing.

“Why don’t the two of you come in,” Steve offers, stepping back from the door. “I just made some lemonade if you’re interested.”

God damn it. He’s hospitable as well. That’s fine—Bucky will simply refuse. He wants to make it clear he has no desire to befriend this guy.

“That would be great,” Bucky’s mouth says, traitorously.

The inside of Steve’s apartment is unlike anything Bucky has ever seen. Huge canvases with vibrant, highly detailed paintings line the walls. Large, paint-stained tarps cover nearly every available surface. There are more brushes and pallets than dirty dishes in the sink.

“You’re, um, an artist, huh?”

Great. Stunningly articulate.

“Oh, yeah,” Steve replies, blushing slightly. “That’s part of what I wanted to chat with you about. But first, lemonade!”

Steve hands Bucky a glass and he takes a sip. It is, unfortunately, excellent.

“Why don’t you have a seat,” Steve offers, gesturing to the kitchen table, which is one of the few surfaces not covered in a tarp or art supplies. Bucky obliges and Betty comes to curl up contentedly at his feet.

Alright, now this Steve guy has a chance to justify his behavior, and it had better be a damn good excuse for all the headaches he’s given Bucky this week. Bucky leans back in the chair and folds his arms over his chest, face deliberately impassive.

“So, I suppose I should explain,” Steve begins. Bucky narrowly avoids snapping “Yeah, I think you should” in return.

“I’m an artist, like you said,” he continues. “Just a few years out of my MFA program. And I just booked my first big show. It’s coming up in a few months and they’ve asked me to paint a few new pieces. And I don’t know, something about the pressure, about the amount of money people are willing to spend on my work, it was just debilitating. I couldn’t paint anymore. Nothing I came up with was any good and I threw out canvas after canvas. So I did what I used to do when I hit a major block back in school—played some really loud music.”

“Yes,” Bucky interrupts. “I am well aware of that.”

Steve smiles sheepishly.

“And suddenly I could paint again. But it wasn’t the music that got me there. It was Betty’s howling.”

If Bucky were directing a movie, this would be the point at which he’d instruct the actor to do a double take.

“Wait, seriously?”

“I know it sounds weird, but she was just so uninhibited. It didn’t matter if she was any good, it didn’t matter that she was making an ungodly racket and bothering people. She just heard the music and felt moved to join in, just for the joy of it. And I don’t know, it inspired me. I tried to take that approach with my painting—not worrying about getting it right, just remembering the joy and love I used to feel whenever I painted. And it sounds crazy, but it absolutely worked.”

So he found the dog’s incessant, ear-splitting howling inspiring. How revoltingly, despicably endearing. It’s getting harder and harder for Bucky to stay angry.

“I knew exactly what I was doing, and I kept doing it. And I’m sorry, because it really was pretty selfish, but Betty was my muse. Everything I made in the past week had this different energy to it, this real life and excitement. And I owe it all to her.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Bucky admits in spite of himself. “I mean, who am I to argue with the creative mind? Especially when you’re under the gun like that.”

Steve laughs.

“No, you’re right, it was a total asshole move. And so I wanted to explain, and give you some lemonade, and apologize. So I’m sorry and I promise I won’t keep provoking her like that.”

Any final remnants of anger dissipate completely. It makes sense, in a weird, backwards sort of way. And Steve owned up, took responsibility, and apologized directly. That says something about a person’s character.

“And by way of apology, I wanted to give you something.”

“Oh, no,” Bucky says hurriedly. “You really don’t have to do anything like that. We’re cool. Don’t worry.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says, smiling. “But I really want you to have this. Wait right here.”

Steve disappears into another room of the apartment, shuffles around for a bit, and comes out carrying a canvas about half the span of his arms. It’s back faces Bucky, so he can’t see what the painting is, and his curiosity is admittedly piqued when Steve rests it on the ground.

“So it’s not necessarily accurate in a literal sense, because I hadn’t seen her yet, but I tried to capture her spirit. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to take it. But I think if you want, you should have it.”

And with that, Steve turns around the canvas. It’s a dog. Or rather, it’s Betty. In fairness, it doesn’t look much like her. Betty is a russet, bronze color and the dog in the painting is black. The painting has the ears flopped down, and Betty’s point up. The face isn’t exactly right. But nonetheless, it unquestionably is her. Her energy and joy and joie de vivre are somehow captured so perfectly that it’s immediately obvious. It’s almost uncanny.

“Wow,” Bucky begins. “You nailed her. I mean, not literally, but somehow… I don’t know, I’m not an expert on art or anything, but I can tell it’s her. It’s weird. But good weird.”

Steve grins, and his whole face lights up beautifully.

“I’m really glad. Please take it. It’s the least I can do after making your life miserable for a week.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says. It feels inadequate, but he really isn’t sure what else to say.

“And feel free to turn me down, but, um, I’ve really grown to like Betty over this past week. I wasn’t kidding about her being my muse. So if you’d ever like some company taking her on a walk or going to the park, let me know. My schedule’s really flexible, working from home and all.”

Bucky’s stomach flips in a way he doesn’t yet feel comfortable putting a name to, but it’s an undeniably warm, pleasant, somewhat exhilarated feeling. It feels like he’s on the brink of something. Something really good.

“We were headed out now, actually. I try to walk her twice a day if I can. So you’re welcome to join.”

Steve smiles again, that beautiful, warm, bright one, before fetching a coat and scarf and bundling himself up to brave the October evening air. The three of them head out of the apartment together, perhaps closer than new acquaintances would stand under ordinary circumstances, and begin down the sidewalk in the rich, golden rays of late afternoon sunlight.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thank you so much for reading!!! i reply to every comment i get (albeit a bit slowly sometimes) & am always available to holler at via [tumblr](https://storybookprincess.tumblr.com/)!!!


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